“I suppose you know it pretty well,” said the Major archly upon which Mr. Foker winked at him again.
“I would give a great deal to have a specimen of her hand-writing,” continued Major Pendennis, “I dare say you could give me one.”
“No, no, that would be too bad,” Foker replied. “Perhaps I oughtn’t to have said as much as I have. Miss F.’s writin’ ain’t so very bad, I dare say; only she got Miss R. to write the first letter, and has gone on ever since. But you mark my word, that till they are friends again the letters will stop.”
“I hope they will never be reconciled,” the Major said with great sincerity; “and I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have had the good fortune of making your acquaintance. You must feel, my dear sir, as a man of the world, how fatal to my nephew’s prospects in life is this step which he contemplates, and how eager we all must be to free him from this absurd engagement.”
“He has come out uncommon strong,” said Mr. Foker; “I have seen his verses; Rouncy copied ’em. And I said to myself when I saw ’em, ‘Catch me writin’ verses to a woman,—that’s all.’”
“He has made a fool of himself, as many a good fellow has before him. How can we make him see his folly, and cure it? I am sure you will give us what aid you can in extricating a generous young man from such a pair of schemers as this father and daughter seem to be. Love on the lady’s side is out of the question.”
“Love, indeed!” Foker said. “If Pen hadn’t two thousand a year when he came of age——”
“If Pen hadn’t what?” cried out the Major in astonishment.
“Two thousand a year: hasn’t he got two thousand a year?—the General says he has.”
“My dear friend,” shrieked out the Major, with an eagerness which this gentleman rarely showed, “thank you!—thank you!—I begin to see now.—Two thousand a year! Why, his mother has but five hundred a year in the world.—She is likely to live to eighty, and Arthur has not a shilling but what she can allow him.”